


Mirabelle

by FreyaLor, lustig



Category: French History RPF
Genre: Celebrations, Drinking Games, Drunken Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Gen, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Possibly Pre-Slash, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: It all happened on August the 22nd 1630, two days after the surrender of Montauban.His Eminence, Captain Treville and a bottle of spirits, for King and Country.Joseph can do nothing but watch and suffer.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu & François Leclerc du Tremblay | Father Joseph, Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu & de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Mirabelle

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not new, anymore. Freya wrote it after I visited her and her lovely family and their camp, and it is, basically, a free retelling of one of the evenings we had together.  
> But yeah. She wrote it, I fixed it up, my ever-faithful Beta Liadt checked it on typos and here we are. Two years after it's been written, finally there to be published. Please enjoy!
> 
> PS: Yes, Mirabelle has been a running gag between the two of us ever since.

It all happened on August the 22nd 1630, two days after the surrender of Montauban.

Eminence had succeeded where the King himself had failed nine years before, in front of the clever ramparts and secret underground tunnels of the Huguenot stronghold. More patient than Louis, the Generalissime did not rush straight into war. He first dedicated a few months to draw a map of every road, tunnel, or path leading into the city, using my network of informants to unveil even the most concealed ones, and meticulously sealed them shut before our troops even started to build the siege walls. The City of heretics did not expect such thoroughness and faced the siege ill prepared. After a few weeks, it surrendered without a fight.

On this day, we were on our way back to Paris where the King awaited us, and Lord, we were _exulting_. We were triumphant, ecstatic, emboldened by God’s grace lighting our path ahead. Nothing could stop us anymore.

_Nothing could stop him._

I sat in Eminence’s war carriage, a small, but sturdy vehicle rolling smoothly over the narrow roads along the Vienne. Around us, the Generals Schomberg and Bassompierre were following on horseback. Captain Treville also, who was not a general and was not likely to be, but who kept on distinguishing himself by excellent military deeds.

Jean de Tréville. _Ha_. His dear Musketeers are reckless fools, all of them, and I have a massive file of sin and mischief about each one of them, but their Captain, I am afraid, is one of the most virtuous men I have ever known.

We rode until nightfall, when Eminence ordered the men to set camp in a wide meadow near Saint Junien. The location was perfect, allowing the troops to settle nicely on the riverbank, and the officers to stay on a small hilltop above them. Five lieutenants set up the general staff tent in fifteen minutes and the Royal tent for Eminence and I did not take a second longer. 

As a thin, pale moon rose above the quiet forest, the campfires were burning high, and laughter and soldiers’ songs started to dance all around the meadow.

The same morning, for the first time in months, the Cardinal had abandoned his war uniform for his robes, and that holy shade of red returning to his shoulders was the most delightful sign of peace I could ever hope for.

War was over, our victory complete, and though there had to be time later for prayers and work, even I was forced to admit it was time to celebrate.

Basompierre pushed a comfortable wooden armchair near the Officer’s campfire so that the Generalissime could enjoy the company of his general staff while having an overview of the troops below sending their cheers up to the stars. Eminence sat down gracefully, and, since they always mean a lot among well-born men, when the rest of us had to choose their seats, I gladly stepped aside, giving up my usual place on Armand’s right for bold, courageous Treville.

The cooks served us a fresh, delicate meal, taken from the reserves of the very City we had just defeated, and as stories of those five months of glory joyfully slipped from mouth to ears around the fire, Eminence’s stance turned from poised authority to a more relaxed, offhand slump.

“There was this insane infantryman in my regiment,” Schomberg guffawed, “huge as a mountain, strong as a horse! Dumortier, his name is. He’s down there with the fifth battalion.”

Treville and I twisted out necks to have a look at the prodigy, and while we caught a glimpse of the giant eating a whole ham downhill, the General went on with wide gestures of his arms.

“He had his thigh pierced with a Huguenot bolt, you see, and the thing was sticking out of his flesh like a flag! Do you know what that wild boar did? Every time he killed an Officer, he ripped the dead man’s military stripes and hung them on the bolt in his bloody thigh! By the end of the battle, the stick was almost entirely covered!”

Gasps of admiration and murmurs of respect hummed around the fire. Of course, Eminence pulled out a small notebook from his robes to scribble what I was sure was the soldier’s name. Heh. The Generalissime never forgets to reward a good man.

Schomberg, who had been keeping a tight hold of a bottle of Bordeaux for half an hour, stood up to make impersonations of his best moments of war, reviving his most glorious deeds for us to see. Laughter danced around the fire, and bottles from Montauban’s own cellars came to die at the bottom of our seats.

As this warm, cheerful evening unfolded, Eminence kept smiling fondly, his eyes lost into the twisting flames, or upon the troops near the river.

He quietly refused each passing of the bottle, and surprisingly, so did Treville. The Captain just sat there, his sword neatly tucked on his lap, following conversations in peaceful delight, though something, I am sure, was brewing in his mind. I never knew enough about that man, and it upsets me more than it should.

Only much later at night did I get a hint about his plans, when the camp below became much quieter, and almost all Officers had declared themselves vanquished, heading more or less steadily towards their beds. All that was left around the hilltop fire was Eminence, Treville, Bassompierre, Schomberg and I.

A comfortable silence stretched between us for a while until Treville spoke, maybe for the first time in hours, and very calmly said: “I brought something.”

All stares turned to him when he stood, agile as ever, to fetch his saddlebags out of the General Staff tent. He rummaged through them, and he pulled out one tall bottle filled with a clear, shining liquid. A small tag was stuck on the side, with one single word, hand written with devoted care and a thick quill: **_Mirabelle_**.

“It’s something made in my hometown,” he said in a dreamy voice. “Every farmer makes his own, from the orchards of his lands, and there never can be two bottles that taste the same.”

Schomberg and Bassompierre cheered with the greedy happiness of drunken men when new opportunities arise. I huffed and rolled my eyes, I think.

“Would you drink with me?” Treville asked. “To France, and to the King.”

Treville spoke for everyone, but by the look on his face, it was clear as day the only answer he was interested in was Eminence’s, and the Generalissime just raised his eyebrows and smiled. He had, I think, a suspicious look for the crystal liquid in the bottle, but eventually he nodded, pushed his glass forward, and whispered: “To France and to the King.”

Before his last word echoed under the Lion constellation, Treville had popped the cork off with a pocketknife and sat back, delighted as I never saw him before. I almost gasped at the unreasonable amount of alcohol he poured in Eminence’s glass, _Lord, how strong was that thing?_

The bottle passed to the Generals after that, and as the Cardinal inspected the Eau-de-vie by the light of dancing flames, the Captain softly explained how the small, sun-kissed fruits were grown in Oloron Sainte-Marie, generous lands graced by long summers. While he talked, the Generalissime took his first sip, and Treville’s speech froze in a gasp.

_Eminence had **shuddered**._

Not lightly. Not that small shiver of the spine you get at the first burn of alcohol. It was a whole-body shiver, some sort of spasm, as if his very skin rippled at the idea of drinking this. He pressed a hand against his mouth, his eyes watering, and banged the glass back down on the armrest of his chair with an outraged whine.

Treville sat in complete silence for eight seconds.

Then he burst out laughing.

He hugged his own belly and laughed, so hard he almost lost his breath. Bassompierre and Schomberg snickered too, but more discreetly, I think, because none of them was sure about how the almighty Generalissime would receive their hilarity.

Treville did not seem to worry. He is too bold, that man, too blunt to care. He is the most honest soul the army had ever held, and he has to be taken as he is, or not at all. He laughed, wiping tears out of his eyes, and picked up the bottle again to refill Eminence’s glass.

“Strong stuff, isn’t it?” he grinned. “It can clean wounds quite good too, you know.”

Eminence glared at him, repressing a cough, and hissed: “My insides are currently quite thoroughly _cleaned_ , thank you.”

The Captain laughed some more.

“Take another sip” He invited joyfully. “It’ll hurt less.”

At first, the Cardinal shook his head in refusal, and I exhaled a sigh of relief, my gaze sweeping over the troops. But it seemed I had misjudged the Captain yet again, as I heard a soft voice rising next to me.

“…for France and the King?” Treville devilishly purred, and the sheer faith in those words hit a nerve in Eminence’s mind that meant nothing but trouble.

This was not an invitation anymore.

This was a challenge.

And though the armour had been abandoned for the clerical robes once more, the man inside them was still a fighter.

My hands twitched in worry.

Eminence looked right into Treville’s eyes and drank. Another shudder, just as strong as the first. The Captain slapped his thighs laughing again, this time earning himself a frown I know very well.

The Cardinal put down his glass again, picked up an empty cup abandoned next to his seat by one of the Officers, and firmly dropped it on Treville's lap.

“I might be unfamiliar with strong beverages, Captain,” The Generalissime rasped like someone drawing his sword in a duel, “but I still command this army. So here are my orders, _soldier_. Every time I drink this poison of yours, you will drink just the same amount.”

With that, he handed the bottle back to Treville, and I muttered a prayer to Saint Louis.

Treville narrowed his eyes, he seemed unsure, but thrilled by the challenge as always. When Eminence opened his mouth for some sarcasm the captain cut him short with a raised hand, poured himself a full glass with the other, lifted it up in a mockery of a toast, and gulped down a good half of it, oh, dear God, what kind of madness was I witnessing?

This nonsense I could understand from foot soldiers or plain gunmen, but between a distinguished officer and the _First Minister of France_ , Heavens help me, this was outrageous.

That cursed bottle passed between both of them alone after that, Bassompierre and Schomberg too fascinated to protest, sitting stiff on their seats as if terrified to break the spell. Eminence drank a bolder gulp, and I cringed at another full-body spasm, oh for God's sake, why could he not see how hard his body was refusing that liquid?

With two more rounds, my worry grew into panic. Eminence never drank. Never anything other than his herbal tea and watered down wine. He was forty-five, for God’s sake, and his health had seen better days. He had been burning with fever less than a week ago, and frankly, he could gain a few pounds. I spend half of my life picking up the pieces of him, day by day, fit after fit, and what was he busy doing?

Murdering himself with liquid fire.

Treville's laughter to Eminence’s shudders turned from a roar to a fond chuckle, but he fought the duel just fine.

They drank too much, they drank too fast, and I sat there staring in anguish, unable to understand what in the name of God was happening.

_Really, is this a way to celebrate?_

The Captain, strangely giddy, started to talk about his family, I think. Nothing interesting for my files, so I did not memorize it. Stories about his father's trade, his house in the South, his brother, his garden, and the mediocre portrait of Henry the Fourth above the mantelpiece that gave him the will to serve his country, something of the kind.

What I do remember, thought, is that Eminence, _my Eminence_ , instead of nodding noncommittally as I taught him to do in front of any confidence, gently let out the five names of his siblings, one by one, including the mad, including the dead.

And trust me, that was something he _had never done before_.

Treville seemed to understand it, blunt as he was, drunk as he could have been. He listened, focused, intense, and when Eminence’s voice stumbled and broke upon the name of his beloved Nicole, the Captain's hand flew up to grab the thin red sleeve.

I growled in outrage, _how dare he_ , but my Cardinal smiled and let the man's hand stay right where it was. I shut my mouth and looked away, well, if he wanted this.

I was, after a lifetime spent taking care of him, far beyond the point of judging.

If there is one thing I have learned, it is that sinners make all the greatest things.

I could not miss the fact that gradually, as they went on with their senseless duel, personal secrets slid to blatant flirting, and Eminence leant back into his chair, his gaze a bit glassy maybe, his thumb stroking his mouth in a way I did not know, in a way I did not like. He had crossed his legs high at some point, and in the darkening camp I am quite sure the Generals didn't notice a thing, but Treville was close enough to witness the sheer _provocation_ in the gesture.

He did witness just fine, that I am sure, and he devoured the sight with hungry eyes, God, I had seen both of them do enough stupid, reckless things in one night for _this_ to be the last bloody straw.

“Oh, that's enough! Give me that, you wicked fools.”

I got up, snatched the bottle out of the Captain's hands and poured half of what was left of it into my own wooden goblet.

I put the liquid fire back into Treville's stunned fingers and went back to my seat, resolutely swallowing it dry in one gulp. By all the Saints of the Holy Church, it _hurt_. My own young days were far away, and I had never been made for that kind of effort. But if my coughing and crying could protect Eminence from his own foolishness, then why the hell not?

They stared at me, dumbfounded for as long as I needed to recover, and if under my stern, pained glare Eminence straightened a bit on his chair, well, at least that was something.

But there was still poison left in that filthy bottle of Mirabelle, and the Generalissime never left a battle unfinished. He took a large sip, shuddered so hard I thought his back would snap, and handed the bottle to Treville, who did just the same, without a shudder, but with a glistening, famished look for the Cardinal's neck that I'm not likely to ever forget.

With that, the Captain took some time to gaze at the troops as the campfires died down below. Only a handful of soldiers were still singing songs around the last sparkles of flame, the last cups, the last plates.

“I've never been this drunk.” He slurred, and Eminence's eyes widened.

“Really?” he muttered. “Well, that makes two of us.”

He laughed softly then, for no reason at all, and drank another gulp, oh Lord, what was happening?

It was a duel of pride, maybe. A duel of silliness. A duel of defiance, of challenge, the most unlikely battle I had ever seen, with two opponents that felt everything, but hate for each other. It was stupid, it was nonsense, but those were two fighters in front of a campfire, the smell of blood and gunpowder barely dried off their skins, and after all, even to celebrate, fighting was all they could do.

The duel could have seemed uneven.

Eminence was thin and sickly, exhausted and tortured, while Treville was fifteen years younger, and an accomplished athlete. Really, I had seen the Captain running around siege lines, fighting ten men in the same minute, jumping up and down watchtowers, and once the battle was won, barely washed clean from blood and grime, shouting cadets awake for training moves until the early morning light.

The energy this man had was almost inhuman.

But it was only a fair match, after all, with my Cardinal's _resolve_.

I saw it burning bright in the dark, unwavering eyes, as he lifted his chin at Treville, and drank an insane gulp of eau-de-vie. I saw it burn as it burned on the seawall of La Rochelle, and just as it burned, ten years before, in his cold miserable study of Luçon while he plotted his ladder to absolute power.

He handed the bottle to the Captain for the last time.

Ten heartbeats of silence passed between them.

_But Treville never took it._

He shook his head in a sigh instead, turning his glass over and planting it on the ground between his feet with slow, clumsy moves.

“You win, Cardinal.” He stuttered.

Eminence grinned in triumph. He dropped the bottle on the ground, his eyes fixed on Treville, and it smashed against a small rock with a definite, though sibylline sound.

“For France, and for the King” The Cardinal rumbled, and they both laughed like the idiots they were.

I rubbed my eyes in sheer relief.

It was finally over. No one had died. _Thank Jesus Christ._

I think I got up afterwards to fetch Eminence's cloak. It would be autumn soon, and thin as he was, he could get cold all too easily.

As I walked away, both fighters started talking again, softly, about the King I guess, and his plans for Spanish wars. Treville had fallen closer to Eminence, leaning towards him, like those cats do when they beg for a caress. I worried, of course, but no one saw anything. Bassompierre had gone to bed, and Schomberg, dead-drunk and oblivious to us all, was busy scraping the bottom of a forgotten pan with a thick slice of bread.

I rolled my eyes for the second time. It is something I tend to do often.

When I came back to wrap Eminence in his cloak, he swiftly put a finger against his mouth. He nodded towards his right, and I huffed a low chuckle.

Treville was asleep, snoring lightly, his head upon the Cardinal's shoulder, both his hands limp and comfortable upon a sleeve of thick, red silk.

I gestured that I could remove the soldier from him if he wanted. He gently refused. He asked me to wrap the cloak around both of them instead, and very naturally, he just started to speak again, for both of us and for no one, laying a careful hand upon the Captain's back and stroking it distractedly.

I nearly growled again, but truth be told, Treville had been the best soldier of them all.

And the Generalissime never fails to reward a good man.

Half an hour later, though I thought this whole nightmare to be over, Eminence's brow grew worried, and he paled instantly. He gave Treville a quick nudge to wake him up and sent him to bed with the softest of voices. Blindly, the tamed war hound obeyed, and staggered to his tent with a cheerful wave of his hand.

The Cardinal remained very quiet until the Captain disappeared.

“...Is he gone?” He asked me right after.

“Yes.

“Thank God. Please get me some water, I'm going to be sick.”

_Oh bloody Hell._

~*~

The next morning, I got up at sunrise as always, getting ready for my morning prayers. On the cot next to mine, my dear Eminence was still asleep, but feverish and agitated, his fragile stomach punishing him for his defiance.

I shook my head. Children, they all are, no matter how brave or how clever they can be.

My matins done, I got out of the Royal tent to revive the fire for a kettle of herbal tea that I felt would be necessary.

Below my feet, the soldiers’ camp was also coming alive, the first footmen getting out of their tents to wash up or gather their scattered uniforms. The smell of the river was magnificent, the forest vibrant with the last colours of summertime, birds singing their hearts out just like our men did the night before.

I took a deep breath, saluted the beauty of the Earth and thanked God for his everlasting grace. As I fumbled around for the fire poker, I found it placed in my hands by some kind of miracle, and shot a glance upwards.

Treville was there, fully clothed, his uniform shining bright, his blue cloak floating in the morning breeze, his face flawless, his eyes lively.

“Good morning, Father.” He greeted me, and I grunted something short.

He smiled, and sat back on his seat from the evening camp, cutting a chunk of bread in two to start his breakfast routine. He remained perfectly silent, letting me perform all my tasks in peace, preparing tea and medicine, gathering news for the morning briefing.

Only when Basompierre and Schomberg got up and ready and the troops below started to grow impatient, he did dare to ask in a nonchalant voice that would not fool a toddler:

“How's the Cardinal?”

I bit my lips, and shrugged, nodding towards the Royal tent.

“What do you think?” I spat.

“Well, he did win,” Treville tried.

“He won the way he always wins,” I grunted. “Paying the price with pain.”

The brave man frowned, a mouthful of bread stuck in his mouth, and gave Eminence's tent a pensive look.

He told me nothing more that day.

By the time the Cardinal slid out again, the generals were worried, and I had almost run out of excuses. Eminence maintained a decent facade for everyone else, but the red lines under his eyes and the visible tightening of his jaw did not escape my sharp inspection.

I poured him tea, and gave him his medicine, my morning sermon just as warm, just as ready to be served, but before I opened my mouth he hissed between clenched teeth:

“I swear to God, Ezekielli, not a word.”

And he hid his unease behind a stern, haughty look, while turning his back on me.

That look, though convincing, lasted for one minute exactly, until he faced Treville, still sitting right there in his seat, looking up with a smug, youthful smile.

“Counting years, Generalissime?” He taunted, and Eminence let out a quick flinch before his mask of composure fell back.

He did not reply right away. He just gave the ground a soft kick, making the broken shards of the Mirabelle bottle clink a defeated noise.

Treville looked down and bit his lips.

“Counting victories, Captain.” Eminence said, but the croak in his voice gave the soldier all the satisfaction he hoped for.

And in one hour, no more, all traces of our camp disappeared, to give the meadow back to the arms of nature. No one dared to pick up the broken glass, and to this day, I do wonder if that bottle is still there, upon that soft hilltop, a souvenir left for years to come of the most foolish of duels.

A duel of defiance, of challenge, the most unlikely battle I had ever seen, with two opponents that felt everything, but hate for each other.

~* _Fin_ *~


End file.
